His
by truglasgowgal
Summary: Post September 11th, Mac Taylor finds a reason to go on ...
1. His strength

Title: His: His Strength  
Disclaimer: Yeah, none of this belongs to me only a couple of my own wee characters that I made up  
Summary: What gave Mac the strength to keep going after Claire died in 9/11? The answer: A seven-year-old orphan who managed to smile even when she was burying the one she loved most. After all, if she could be strong and carry on, maybe he could too.

Without even realizing it, she was his strength; what kept him going after that fateful day.

September Eleventh.

He still had to suppress a shudder whenever he thought about it – even now, five years on.

He would say Stella was his Statue of Liberty – standing tall, strong, never wavering. And all the while providing him with the much-needed support, that he would never admit to requiring, but was silently grateful for anyway. Yet, he was scared to personify her in such a way, after all the green goddess that stood proudly over the bay, could one day be reduced to dust – after all, nobody expected it of the towers, but it had happened.

And yet, despite all Stella had done for him over the years, she couldn't quite give him the strength to carry on after that day. No one could.

Except a seven-year-old orphaned little girl.

Maybe, in some way, Stella was indeed his strength.

He first noticed her at the memorial. He watched from afar, as the crowd stood before the marble monument. The men in their cleanly pressed uniforms, standing tall and straight. The women by their sides, in classic black, hunched over and crying rivers. And the pipers at the back playing their solemn tunes. The guns fired, and the officer approached her, bending down and handing her the folded flag, the blackened helmet resting neatly on top.

There, standing apart from the other mourners, was a little girl. She had light blonde hair that shone in the light and was pulled back from her face, and secured with a bobble decorated with a white flower. The rest was draped over her shoulders, cascading gracefully down her back. Her piercing blue eyes were haunting, as was the calm serene of her face. She was the perfect picture of an angel. The sun reflected off her hair creating what seemed like a halo above her; while the white sundress she wore and the small strappy sandals completed her image of a figure from above.

Her whole appearance was of someone that didn't belong there – someone that _shouldn't _have been there.

But she was.

And that was the reality of the situation. That was the consequences of such an event. That was what happened to people after 9/11.

And his eyes remained there. Never moving. Fixed. Watching intently as the little girl looked up at the man then, and in the simplest of actions … smiled.

She glanced back down at the material then, and her smile grew. The others watched on then, intrigued by her behaviour, as she walked silently forward, placed the helmet carefully on the ground beside her and pulled the fabric apart with her two hands. Holding it stretched out then, was when he actually noticed it.

The flag.

It didn't have the stripes placed horizontally across the plane. Nor did it have the stars in the top left hand corner.

In place of the lines, were numerous thick red and white ones. And instead of the small box with the tiny pointed shapes, it was blocked in with a deep blue colour.

It didn't have the stripes or the stars, because it wasn't the United States flag.

It combined the crosses of St. Andrew, St. Patrick and St. George.

It was the Union Flag of Great Britain.

And he joined the rest of the gathering in watching with intense curiosity at this little girl's actions.

He noticed some of the men standing to the side, their heads nodding as they watched in agreement at what she was doing; and he couldn't help but sense the feeling of pride emanating from her small body as well as the understanding few looking on.

She took a step forward, stumbling slightly over the bottom of the material, and he caught a glimpse of a few members of the assembly who had suddenly moved towards her somewhat, wary of what she was doing, and fearing her falling – but he wasn't sure whether they were worried about her hurting herself when she landed, or whether it was simply because of what she'd land _on_,if she did in fact fall.

Tumbling onto a coffin on such an occasion as this was definitely not something people wanted.

Either way, it did not matter. She didn't even spare them a glance, as she caught herself tugging the cloth upwards and proceeding forwards once more. And then she stretched up on her tiptoes and draped the flag back across the deep mahogany casket; smoothing it out and making sure it fell evenly across both sides. And then with set determination, she bent down and retrieved the charred helmet, and placed it firmly on the middle of the material.

Satisfied then, she smiled pleased by her small achievement, and stood in front of the casket for a moment, before she lifted up a small silver pendant hanging on the chain round her neck, and kissed it, her lips murmuring set words as she did so. They were best kind. The ones no one else can hear. Those just for the one's they were meant for. The way it was supposed to be.

Her smile widened across her face as the sun broke out from the clouds and shone a stream of light straight down towards them all. She glanced upwards then, her eyes squinting a little at the brightness, before she faced the mahogany once more and grinned vibrantly.

A Maori proverb came to him then, as he watched her and the emotion that shone on her face like its own ray light. _Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you_. It seemed rather fitting at that moment.

Moving forwards, she positioned both hands firmly on either side of the wood, and placed a sweet kiss on the front of the casket, and a smile crept onto his features as she whispered firmly, "I love you daddy"

And as heart-wrenching as the scene was for all those around to watch, it was the words she uttered next that would stay with all those present forever – he had no doubt.

She took a step back, a smile still lingering on her face as she straightened her boy, drawing herself up to full height, and said determinedly:

"I'll make you proud, daddy. Just like you made me. You left me to help them. But you died for those people; you died for them, daddy. I wasn't worried though; I wasn't scared. Because Heroes always die a beautiful death"

And then she took a step back, whispering to the wind, "You're a Hero, daddy, always and forever"

He stayed there; rooted to the spot, well after everyone else had left.

As did she.

"Forgive their tears, daddy. They don't know you can't leave me, they don't hear you singing to me … "

And then she took a deep breath, the smile faltering slightly before she spoke again, "I love you, daddy. But it's not goodbye, you told me that when mummy left, you said it's never goodbye. So I'll see you around, daddy – I love you"

And she stood up on her tiptoes then, carefully placing the green of the stalk of the white lotus in front of the charred helmet, before her heels dropped to the soft grass once more, and she smiled.

She stepped back to have one last look at her father's new bed, before turning and walking away.

He moved closer then, his polished shoes sinking into the ground below, until they came to a stop before the stone monument.

The top bore the name of a woman, the dates of her existence, and a short poem.

_If flowers grow in Heaven,  
Lord, pick a bunch for me.  
Place them in my mummy's arms  
And tell her they're from me._

Underneath was engraved her husband's name, a recording of his short life, and a continuation of the words form before.

_If rain falls in Heaven,  
Lord, catch a cup for me.  
Place it in my daddy's hands  
And tell him it's from me._

And then the soft fluttering of something caught in the grass and flapping in the breeze caught his attention. His eyes darted across as they set their sights on the material, and he bent down to lift it up, shaking the crisp paper booklet to rid it of the few blades of green before wiping it on his trouser leg to clear dew smeared across the front.

He scanned the front, absorbing the name it held and the image of the man displayed, proudly posing for the camera in his 'fire fighter gear' and standing in front of a background divided by two flags. One American and the other British.

And then his eyes suddenly took note of the two sentences in bold at the bottom of the front page, which read:

**To the world you were a 'fighter  
But to me you were the world**

And he looked up then, and followed her path across the green, suddenly curious as to where she had gone and to whom. He saw an elderly couple standing some way off, but – unusually for him – he dismissed them somewhat, thinking them to be visiting a relative or friend.

They were.

And he found himself slightly taken aback when he saw the little girl catch sight of them, and suddenly free herself of all the reigns previously holding her back, and sprint straight towards them; where she was met with strained open arms to assure comfort; he noted; and smiles put on to reassure her they were still there. With her.

And he watched her smile back at them, but it was different from the one she'd had before, now it was manufactured slightly to comfort them, because she knew. They were together now.

And, watching the exchange he couldn't help but feel anger that this was what had happened to families now. Reduced to fake smiles. Made to put up false fronts.

But as he saw the trio walk away, the little girl walking in between the two adults, their hands all joined; and he saw them smile at her, and her lips curve upwards in return as she glanced from one to the other; he realized that they all had to find comfort wherever they could now.

Because it was their strength.

And she soon become his.

That little orphaned girl, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could light up Heaven, became the reason Mac Taylor kept on going day-after-day.

Because if she could carry on, maybe he could too.

A/N: We Will Never Forget …  
I started writing this ages ago, and wanted to post it yesterday, but never got the chance.  
This is to honour all those affected by 9/11, and to remember the Brits who also died on that day.  
My thoughts and prayers are with the victims, their families, and the survivors.


	2. His Trust

Title: His Trust  
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, only a couple of my own wee characters that I made up  
Summary: "To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved" – George MacDonald. After all that happened, after the great loss and tragedy that had befallen them, and in the suspecting and doubting environment in which they now lived, they trusted him with the most precious thing they had in their lives – the only one they had left. And that meant more to him than any other words could have.

He had taken her for coffee, or rather he has taken _himself _for coffee – she'd had a chocolate milkshake; and an ice cream. That day. Right after the funeral.

He didn't know what had made him do it. But as he watched her walk away, hands held tight within those of the two elders on either side of her, he suddenly felt compelled to go after her. And so, without a moment's hesitation, he did.

He ran right across the green, his feet pounding down with each step, until he reached them on the tarmac trail that led away from the cemetery.

But when he reached them, he didn't know what to say.

Though he needn't have worried; she saved him the trouble.

"It's ok", she spoke, her British accent was light in the air, "He's a police man, gampa"

"Ain't you, Mister?" she said to him then, gazing into his eyes.

"Yes, I am", he replied, "I was … "

"Do you want to take me for an ice-cream?" she suddenly asked him then.

He stopped.

"Well, do you?" she said then, before looking up at each of her grandparent's and saying, "Can he?"

They looked as if they were about to start to protest, or tell the child he was probably 'busy' or had 'better things to do', so he cut in first.

"I'd love too", he told the girl, though the words suddenly seemed foreign in his mouth, and she beamed back at him.

He allowed the corners of his lips to curl upwards in the slightest, before he quickly added, "If that's ok with you?"

They looked uncertain for the briefest of moments, before the child piped up, "Of course it's ok. It's ok, isn't it gampa? Gran?"

An the couple smiled at him, and nodded at the girl who grinned, "See! Told you it was ok. They trust you with me, cos they know I trust you – else I wouldn't have talked to you, cos I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers, so I gots ta trust you 'fore I talk to you"

He nodded, "That's very clever"

And she smiled brightly again, before grabbing his hand and proceeding to start to drag him the opposite way along the path.

"C'mon, Mister Policeman", she told him then, as she yanked on his arm behind her, "I know the best place round here to get ice-cream"

He only just managed to reach into his pocket, stretching out and handing the older man his card, and saying the words, "I'll bring her back here in about half an hour"

The man took the small article, clasping his hand between his own for a moment then and smiled at him, saying reassuringly, "It's ok, son. We trust you"

And it was then he remembered the quote, by George MacDonald, "To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved"

He didn't know if he entirely agreed with the statement, but he did know that at that moment that was the only thing going through his mind.

After all that happened, after the great loss and tragedy that had befallen them, and in the suspecting and doubting environment in which they now lived, they trusted him with the most precious thing they had in their lives – the only one they had left.

And that meant more to him than any other words could have.

He can still remember how she had gotten the chocolate from her drink all over herself, and the smile that appeared on her face and the giggle that had erupted from her lips, when she'd instantly added the vanilla ice cream to the mixture formulated in a ring around her lips and splattered lightly across her rosy cheeks. Her laughter then had been like music to his ears – a completely foreign sound at that time, of which nothing else could even come close to comparing to.

But what she'd said to him that day, the questions she'd posed, the comments she'd made – they would stay with him forever.

"What's your name?" he had asked after the waitress had settled their orders in front of them.

She reached out and picked the steel spoon up from the countertop, and dipped it into the bowl, shrugging in response and not bothering to look up.

She lifted the utensil to her mouth, her lips parting to allow the already melting flavoured ice inside.

She repeated the action once more, before finally meeting his gaze.

"What does it really matter", she'd answered.

And his eyes displayed curiosity at this – he had no doubt – as continued to look straight at him.

And she clarified, "All I seem to be now is 'the orphan'. _Before_ it was "she's the little girl whose mother died in that terrible car crash last year. You know, the one where the drunk driver responsible walked away with only minor injuries". _Then_ it was "she's the little girl whose father died in the Twin Towers. He was one of the first firefighter's on the scene". _Now_ all I seem to get is, "She's the little orphan whose mother was killed in a road accident and whose father died on 9/11". My name doesn't seem to matter to these people, it's what I _am_ that does."

He wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Sure his friends, colleagues, family even; they'd all sent their condolences, offered him support; to help in any way they could; but he supposed, if he really thought about it, they'd all taken on a new identity now. Anyone affected by 9/11, now had something else to bear. They hadn't asked for it, but it was there's all the same. A tag, a label, a new identification.

Because they were all victims … one way or another.

"What's your name?" he tried again, and watched as a slow smile crept up onto her face, as she twirled the two straws together round her mug.

"Alexandria", she said to him then, "But my dad called me Ellie"

"Ellie", he repeated, mulling it over on his tongue, "It suits you"

And she smiled again, this time ducking her head, her fingers still on the thin plastic tubes.

She was the only person he'd ever seen to take a straw with a hot chocolate, no not one straw, _two._ He'd gotten up and taken one from the container on the bar, and brought it back for her, along with various other 'necessities' she'd requested; when she smiled at him, and jumped out of her seat ran over to the place he'd just vacated and stretched up on her tiptoes to try and reach for the carton he'd used barely a minute before. The waitress behind the counter had beamed at the little girl and her efforts, and lifted the object up, taken out a coloured straw and handed it to her.

She smiled in appreciation, gave her thanks, and spun round and headed back to our table.

"Always have two", she'd said simply to me; as if that was explanation enough.

And I'd nodded; as if it truly was.

She was playing with her drink, slowly twirling the green and red pair round-and-round the large cup and watching as the murky contents swirled at her control.

"Will they burn in Heaven, like we do down here?" her voice was quiet, and questioning, as she looked up at him.

And the thought suddenly returned to them that they were all victims.

He was a victim, just like her.

He couldn't tell who hid it better. Or maybe it was the fact that they _didn't_ hide it. Maybe it was just so blatantly and painstakingly obvious that they had suffered, and that they had _survived_; that no one seemed to take much notice anymore.

Because they were all victims … one way or another.

But he had been given a trust like no other, a trust in a time still filled with peril and agitation, a trust that meant more to him than anything else at that time.

That of two people trusting him with what they treasured most. That of two grandparents trusting  
him with their granddaughter. That of two survivors trusting him with all they had left.

I'll try get the next two parts posted up tomorrow.  
All those affected by 9/11 are Heroes. They may not have risked their lives for others, they may not haved saved anyone else, but they're all heroes in their own way.


End file.
